


Rosenrot

by doctor_bitchface_phd



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Combine!Gordon AU, Kidnapping, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25824022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_bitchface_phd/pseuds/doctor_bitchface_phd
Summary: Gordon wakes up on a train in a city he has never seen before. This does not end well for him.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Rosenrot

As the train shuddered rhythmically around him, Freeman was jolted awake; he blearily rubbed his eyes while the mental image of a human in a suit, no, a thing in a human disguise, a not-man, faded from his mind, becoming a mere impression of something terribly alien, and overwhelming dread. He found that his HEV suit had at some point been replaced with a simple shirt and pants, made of scratchy, blue denim, really more similar to canvas than fabric. Looking around, he saw a cheap, dreary train car; the seats were covered with faded red canvas, their metal frames dented and deformed in places. The plexiglass windows seemed to be coated in a thin layer of filth, a skin of grease, dirt and dead bugs that, in some primal intuition, seemed to Freeman like it had been there for a long, long time.

A slow shiver ran down his spine; the thin denim wasn’t very warm, and the space he was in felt as if it was permeated by a damp, invasive chill.

Looking around, he saw no fellow passengers, which set unease to chittering in the back of his mind. The stomach-churning vibration of metal wheels on cheap, aging track continued for an unknown time; to Freeman’s emotional mind, his intuition, it seemed like hours, yet he knew that it was likely closer to around twenty minutes. Eventually, the train began to slow, finally coming to a gradual, screeching halt at a foreign station. From what he could see through the stained plastic window next to him, it appeared just as dirty and desolate as the train car he was currently in.

As he stepped over the narrow crack between metal tile and concrete, Freeman looked up to see that he had been expected by. . . soldiers? The squad of people surrounding him looked human, yet their outfits didn’t match any military uniform he knew of. Their long overcoats were marked with strange, blocky text; a mismatch to the Cyrillic script around him. Ominously, their faces were covered with strange, white gas masks with blue lenses that almost seemed to glow against the background of the dreary, filthy train station, further obscuring their identity and species. 

Freeman was roughly taken by the shoulders, and, with nothing to defend himself against what appeared to be armed guards, forced to walk through winding, grimy hallways, occasionally occupied by despondent people in the same blue denim; hey seemed to fade into the background of dirt and decay, their simple, indistinct uniforms worn down and stained to a dark, overcast gray-blue. Their skin was pale and cold-looking, and Freeman felt for a moment that if he spoke too loudly or tapped them on the shoulder, they would crumble to ash. They seemed more like mannequins tossed aside to rot then actual human beings.

The space is filthy; dirt piled uncleaned in corners, and large windows above are thoroughly grimy, just like the train car; the stains on the glass allow only a thin, grey light through, barely enough to illuminate Freeman’s surroundings in a pale, filthy pallor; despite the people milling about, the building seems as if it hasn’t been occupied in years.

Confused and defenseless, Freeman opts to carefully observe his surroundings to keep his growing panic at bay; he finds some strange comfort in careful, scientific observation, and often uses this to calm himself in dire or unfamiliar situations. The Slavic-looking text around him likely means that he is somewhere in Eastern Europe; this observation is further solidified when, finally, he is led through a set of heavy, stained-wood doors to the bitter chill and light snow of the outside. He barely has a moment to look around at the unfamiliar cityscape around him, to catch a snippet of a strangely familiar voice, before he is shoved into the back of what would appear to be an armored police van.

As the heavy, dark metal door slides shut behind him with a resounding thud and the click of an engaging lock, the cold steel tiles under him lurch as the transport roars to life, and Freeman is thrown backwards against the wall of the metal box he’s been locked into. He tries to calm himself, tries to find something to observe, to quantify, but, in his dim, featureless environment, Freeman finds no respite, no surroundings to let his mind hold onto, and falls into the frantic terror of a panic attack as the van’s tires squealed against the pavement.


End file.
